Homeward Bound
by gwpe
Summary: Nathaniel Howe, in the Free Marches, receives word of the events in Ferelden, and makes plans to return home.


_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The steady rhythm of water dripping, here and there from small cracks in the old planks, and the soft creaking of the wood, as the ship constantly adjusted herself to the motion of the sea, were the only sounds in the ship's hold, which was packed full with extra provisions and supplies for the crew and the passengers on their current voyage from the Free Marches to Ferelden. In the gloom, between sacks and chests, a man's shape could barely be made out, where he rested his back against some crates.

Nathaniel Howe, quietly chewing on an apple and thoroughly bored, contemplated his uncomfortable state once more. He had been drenched to the bone, of course, when he had boarded, but the hold was inherently damp, and the violent waters of the day before had ensured that his clothes were not going to dry any time soon. Nathaniel dared not remove any parts of his armor in case he had to conceal himself quickly – being so close to the bilge should have made this a safe prospect, as the only time the crew would venture down here would be during a storm or some other disaster to pump out the water the ship had taken in. But the Waking Sea was known for its temper and the closer they sailed to Ferelden, the more sudden and brutal its storms would be.

Continuing to dwell on the discomfort of wet clothes led him to think back on the unexpected turn of events that had brought him to hide in the hold of a ship like some criminal or thief, slinking back toward his own home in secret and shadows. Discomfort turned into shame and, with nothing else to occupy him at present, Nathaniel allowed it to fuel the black anger that had been his constant companion these past few weeks.

The first news had come in the form of a courier. Ragged of breath and muddy-clothed, the messenger had immediately made his way to his lord's study, and had been locked up with him for the better part of thirty minutes. The courier was then dismissed, Nathaniel summoned and promptly relieved of his position and his duties, told to pack up and leave within the hour.

_Your father is dead; my business with him is therefore concluded. Furthermore, he has been denounced as a traitor to his country, and I will not be associated with any such thing. Gather your belongings. You are no longer welcome here. _

And just like that, he had been turned out of the place which had been his home for the past eight years. None of his companions (_former companions,_ his mind amended) would look him in the eye; when he pressed for details they turned away. He had thought to stay at the local inn, in the town adjoining the manor, for the night, but decided against it – everyone, apparently, had already heard of his father's supposed disgrace. Ill-news and gossip were swift creatures indeed.

Patrons, servants, idlers, those resting after a day's work – all of them acting as if they didn't know him, hadn't known him all these years (and who was the one who had driven bandits off Lord Carey's land, had run into a burning house to save the little Townshend girl, or had prevented more drunken brawls and subsequent damage than he cared to count in this very tavern?). Or, when forced to speak to him, were downright rude. Nathaniel had eaten quickly – a plate of food and some water brought to him by a waitress who had taken pity on him – and left.

And then he had been faced with a choice. He had to get back to Ferelden – there was nothing left for him here, anyway – but to go to Kirkwall or to Ostwick to take ship? His was a familiar face in Kirkwall; he had spent a whole year there, after all, and quite recently at that, and he would rather avoid any unnecessary identifications or confrontations. But, though a closer sailing distance to Amaranthine, he had never been to Ostwick; did not know the layout of the port city and its harbor, or at which end to find the vessels that were bound for Ferelden; did not know the favorite haunts of those captains and sailors whose gossip and facts he would overhear, nor which corners in the taverns there were the darkest, which tables could not be seen from the doorway or the bar.

So Kirkwall it had been. It had not been difficult. Hanging about the shadows at the docks and in _The Hanged Man,_ Nathaniel had quickly discovered that there were no ships to Amaranthine. The Blight itself had begun in the south of the country and had never gone farther north than Denerim, people said, but in the aftermath the arling had been hit hard. While everywhere else in Ferelden was recovering, darkspawn seemed to converge on Amaranthine. No one was willing to risk the taint by putting into port there, and there was no telling when the situation would change. The choices were Denerim, Gwaren, or Highever. Another decision. Denerim was too crowded, though he might have made that work to his advantage, Gwaren too far, and Highever … well, he had not been there for almost a decade and had never really spent all that much time in the city itself. Perhaps that was enough to make him simply another anonymous face returning to Ferelden after having taken refuge in the north. And he knew the way from Highever to Amaranthine like the back of his hand. He was willing to risk it.

The _Sea Dog_ was due to depart late in the evening. As the sky turned to more muted tones and the ship made ready to set sail, Nathaniel quietly slipped into the water from the other end of the harbor and swam quietly toward the vessel. On its far side, out of view of the docks, he had grabbed hold of the chain as the crew drew the anchor up, and then had perched on the cold metal waiting for night to fall. Then it had been a simple matter of stealth; over the years, he had gained an intimate knowledge of ships and how they were built, the best places to hide and how to get there. Most everyone had been asleep, except for the night shift, but he avoided them easily enough. The most problematic part of his plan had been his wet clothes, as he had correctly assumed that there would be little opportunity to dry off in the hold, but it could not be helped. This had been six days ago.

Of course, there had been other news too around the docks and Lowtown. In loud-voiced banter with friends during pauses in card-games or whispered by slightly more sensible people over mugs of ale, there was no lack of rumors that passed as news from Ferelden as everyone, whether bragging or hesitant in their commentary, all of a sudden became an expert on the situation.

Teyrn Loghain was a traitor. Teyrn Loghain was a hero. As soon as somebody offered that he betrayed the king, leaving everyone to die at Ostagar, another immediately claimed that he had had no choice in pulling out, thus saving what was left of Ferelden's army.

"_And he was recruited by them Grey Wardens, anyhow. If he was all the evil some make him out to be, killing and hunting down the Wardens themselves as they'll have it, why would they take him?"_

"_Well, I heard it was blood magic that made him go power-mad. It's said that there was an entire nest of blood mages under the capital, you know."_

"_And I heard the Grey Wardens actually worship the Archdemon and were the ones that started the Blight – doesn't make it true!" _

The arl of Denerim was dead. The arl of Denerim was, in fact, the arl of Amaranthine, who was also the Teyrn of Highever.

"_Middle of the night, he goes and attacks the Couslands in their own home. He was staying as a guest, you see, an old family friend. The whole family, massacred!"_

"_Aye, but they was plotting with the Orlesians, wasn't they?"_

"_Still doesn't justify killing every man, woman and child in the place. Some elves that used to work around the estate said the teyrn's grandson was only seven or eight!"_

"_Anyways, I heard that were only pretext. The only one to do with any Orlesian plotting was the arl of Redcliffe." _

"_Wut, 'im with the Orlesian wife?"_

"_Oooh, many say it was she that had him poisoned to marry his brother."_

"_Ha! Those Fereldans. As bad as Antivans, aren't they, but don't show it; quiet-like. "_

King Cailan's widow was still queen. The Hero of River Dane's daughter was now married to Maric's bastard, who was a Grey Warden himself.

_The_ Warden – now Warden-Commander and called the Hero of Ferelden – was the new arlessa of Amaranthine. The arling had been given to the Grey Wardens. To the person who had killed its previous arl.

And that was only the political news. The most unbelievable rumors were coming out of Ferelden with the refugees and travelers: that the ashes of Andraste had been found; that werewolves were a more common sight than horses these days; that every mage in the country had turned into an abomination and had been slain. The old warden fortress – no one seemed to remember its name – had been rediscovered with a whole troop of living wardens inside, three hundred years old! There had been more, but Nathaniel had not been of a mind to pay them any attention. The stories about his father and Teyrn Loghain and the wardens had been overwhelming enough.

The wardens had killed his father but had found it in themselves to spare Loghain, under whose orders Rendon Howe was operating? Nathaniel did not know whether the former Teyrn of Gwaren was guilty of everything he was accused of – probably not, if Nathaniel stopped to think about it, which he did not – but those things were far more terrible than what was held against his father. Aside from the supposed massacre at Highever – and his father would never had killed his closest friend if there was not a good reason, and Orlesian sympathy was a damn good one – there appeared to be no other accusation.

All he knew was that the now Warden-Commander of Ferelden had murdered his father, without even bringing him in before the court, had let Loghain free of his crimes and granted him the honor of killing the Archdemon, and had then been rewarded with his family's ancestral home. While he was here, crammed in the hold of this filthy, rotting vessel; damp, hungry, and dirty; without the faintest idea of the fates of his sister and his brother, and his only possessions his clothes and his weapons. He snorted.

_Yes. A cheap Antivan longbow which I was given upon leaving, as my own was too bloody good to pass up confiscating; leather gloves and boots which are now damaged beyond repair thanks to extended exposure to water; a buckle that I found some time ago and kept because I needed one and intended to replace it; an amulet given to me by a dwarf and a ring won in a card-game._

The only things Nathaniel could really call his own were his leather armor, a legendary piece called the Bear's Embrace that had been in his family for two hundred years, and a worn golden ring.

He looked at the ring on his right forefinger, rubbing it absentmindedly with his thumb, as he had done countless times during the last eight years. Delilah had given him this ring, and it had proved to be a great comfort when his travels ended up taking him far from home. In his first years, especially, Nathaniel would spend a great deal of time just staring at it and it would ease the homesickness a bit. He had never taken it off in all this time, and it had accompanied him on scouting missions, training sessions, patrols, and countless other endeavors. Only one glance and he would be back in the forests and fields of Amaranthine, with oranges and spices and wood scenting the air.

Nathaniel wondered where Delilah was now. _Dead, probably_, a part of his mind supplied and he closed his eyes tight against that thought. Instead, he tried to focus on other things. She must have been – what, eight or nine – when she gave him that ring. Nathaniel remembered it vividly.

* * *

><p>He had just returned from a short stay with the Couslands.<p>

King Maric and his son Prince Cailan had been spending some time travelling in the countryside and had stopped by to visit, and Teyrn Loghain had been with them. The children had begged both the king and the teyrn for stories, and Maric had obliged, regaling them with tales of the legendary Grey Wardens. Chastised by Loghain for telling them nothing but dreams and legends, the king had nonetheless succeeded in whipping them all up in a frenzy about the brave warriors who defended Thedas against darkspawn and Blights and rode about on griffins. While much less expressive about his interest than, say, Teyrn Cousland's daughter, he too had wanted to know more about these Grey Wardens. Eleanor Cousland had rolled her eyes good-naturedly but had given him a book from their library, telling him it was his to borrow for as long as he wanted.

His father, of course, had caught him curled up on a window-seat in the library, reading. He had shouted at him, reiterating everything he had ever said against the Grey Wardens and against his grandfather in particular, and had grabbed the book. For one fearful moment, Nathaniel thought he was going to burn it. Instead, Rendon had grabbed him by his hair and dragged him to his room and had locked him in, refusing him dinner until he came to his senses and forbidding anyone to talk to him. The locked-room treatment ended the next morning, but Nathaniel found that his training had been limited to blades; he was not to practice archery for an as yet indefinite period of time.

The week had only gotten worse. First, an unexpected visit from his grandmother. And then his father had yelled at him about all the time he spent with Samuel, the elf that they kept as a groundskeeper. Rendon had stated that if Nathaniel was determined to treat elves as though they had a place in society, then he could forget about becoming arl of Amaranthine one day; the arling would go to Thomas. And, if he was not going to inherit Amaranthine, there was no reason for Nathaniel to accompany him to Denerim the next month as had been planned, so that he could start acquainting himself with the life and procedure at court.

Nathaniel had retreated to his room. Delilah had come by some while later and had just sat with him, not saying anything. Eventually, she held out a plain golden band, telling him she had bought it with Adria when they had been in the city last for a birthday present, but she thought it would be better if she gave it to him now. It was plain, because she knew he did not like fancy things, but it was enchanted with runes for protection and to enhance his rogue skills.

"Delilah, you did not have to get me anything," he said, accepting the ring from her small fingers all the same.

"Yes I did. I wanted you to know that I love you," Delilah had simply replied.

He had not worn the ring on his finger, but had hung it on a chain around his neck and then had scooped up his little sister into a fierce hug.

* * *

><p>A persistent poking at his foot brought Nathaniel out of his thoughts. A rat, a wet and miserable thing, was scampering around. Nathaniel took another bite out of his apple; he then took a flake from that and carefully lowered his hand, tentatively offering it to the rat which, after hesitating for a moment, quickly snatched the piece and ran off with it.<p>

Nathaniel chuckled silently.

His pathetic meal was next interrupted by muffled voices and the thudding of heavy boots. With the grace gleaned only from years and years of being put to the test mercilessly, Nathaniel slipped further into the shadows. A moment later, three men – clearly members of the crew – descended into the hold and started rifling through the sacks near the stairs.

"And I'm telling you, I don't like it!" exclaimed one of them, the largest of the three, the one wearing some sort of green cap on his head.

"So you say every time," drawled another, who had slipped behind a stack of boxes to help the third man free one of the sacks.

"That's because it don't change!" insisted the first.

"Keep your voices down." This was from the third man, who spoke in curt, clipped tones. He had looked up briefly, to chastise his fellows, and now turned again to the strenuous task of moving the sack – potatoes, if Nathaniel recalled correctly.

"I just don't see why it has to be Anselm's Reef. Again," muttered the first man, as he sullenly reached over to help the others.

"How many times …" began the second man, shaking his head. "Look, no one else goes there. You want to get caught? That constable in Amaranthine has been cracking down on the city. You know what the penalty is for smuggling?" He brought his hand to his neck and made a gurgling sound.

"No one goes there because no one is crazy enough!" the first man retaliated, choosing to ignore his crewmate's mime. "All I'm saying is there's plenty of other places along the coast. Forlorn Cove! Now there's an idea, and one I'd be happy with too. Dangerous enough to keep most folk away, but it's not like walking into certain death."

"The Cove doesn't have the debris that the Reef has from all of the shipwrecks," the third man supplied.

"He's right, more than half our stuff comes from those wrecks. Beats stealing and looting; murdering, too," added the second man.

"But – " the first man began to protest.

"Come off it, we've dawdled enough," said the third man, waving his hand and disappearing up the stairs. The first man bent down and lifted the heavy sack, taking the steps slowly.

"Yeah, we're not even at Highever yet. Tell you what, once we let the passengers off, you can piss your pants all you like!" the second man laughed, slapping his shipmate on the back and causing him to stagger a little.

After the last of the noise died away, Nathaniel resumed his place against the crates.

A furrow appeared between his brows as he digested this latest piece of news. Smugglers. He briefly wondered at the state of the arling, if smugglers had gotten their claws sunk so deeply in it – it had sounded as though they had made this run many times before; even the nature of their argument sounded old.

_So they are heading for Amaranthine after letting their passengers off at Highever. Should I also disembark at Highever, and take the road? Or should I stay put? _

At first glance, Highever and then the North Road – or, well, just off the side of it – promised greater chances of success. (_Success at what, precisely?_ inquired a part of his mind, that he roughly quashed). Surely he had not changed _that_ much in eight years, to not be recognized by the people of what was until recently his own arling?

_There's no hiding the nose, in any case,_ Nathaniel thought morosely.

No, his original plan of getting off at Highever was sound. Highever, and then straight to the Vigil.

But what if the wardens – one warden in particular – had not arrived yet? What then? And how were the rooms allotted? Presumably, _she_ would be staying in his father's chambers. The thought of it made his blood boil. But, perhaps, that would be reserved for the royal couple instead, as the king was also a warden. Could that be possible? Where would he find this warden then? He did not even have a name or a description. And he had been gone for a long time. Had additions been made to the keep? What of guard shifts?

If he went straight to the Vigil, there were many assumptions Nathaniel would be making. There were too many ways it could go wrong. What he needed, desperately, was more information. Information that, perhaps, could be acquired in Highever or on the road; information, however, that could be acquired with much more certainty in the city of Amaranthine. The people there, at least the soldiers and the guards, would know something about those to whom it now fell to run the arling.

Of course, he could always go to the city before the Vigil. But, if those sailors had the right of it and the constable was taking strict measures as to what entered and left the city, it would be difficult to enter Amaranthine unnoticed.

That is, if he went by land. Because where smugglers could enter the city with no one the wiser, so could a rogue. Nathaniel's hesitation at extending his journey on this ship past Highever did not stem, primarily, from the possibility of being recognized were he to set foot in Amaranthine.

No, if he was honest with himself, it was the prospect of sailing into Anselm's Reef. Perhaps the most dangerous stretch of the north coast of Ferelden, it had claimed many a sailor who had dared to sail too close to the cliffs.

Was it worth the risk? Nathaniel was not certain. Not yet, at least. Both plans had their strengths and their weak points. He wondered, if he did end up staying on board and they did not all die on the Reef, if he might be able to slip into _The Crown and Lion_. There was bound to be news at the tavern. There always had been, he remembered, even when there was nothing particularly of note happening. Or the Chantry – his father had always had a good relationship with the Revered Mother there. _Probably because he always went over and above with the tithes,_ he mused. Perhaps he could finally find out what really happened with his father.

And then he would take the appropriate revenge.

He forced his thoughts to slow down. He was still in the hold, on a ship sailing the waters where the Waking Sea met the Amaranthine Ocean. It would be another day or two before they docked in Highever. He still had time to decide one way or the other.

Nathaniel took a last bite of the apple, and then stored the core into the small canvas bag he had with him. It would not do to leave evidence of his presence around. He then proceeded to stretch his arms and legs – the cramped quarters had left him feeling sore – whereupon his armor squelched most unbecomingly and he felt the dampness of his clothes anew.

Nathaniel sighed and leaned his head back against the wood of the crate. Maker, he was uncomfortable; and bored.

A small squeak brought his attention to a spot on the floor near his right elbow. The rat had appeared again, and was staring at him intently. With a quirk of his lips and a raised eyebrow, Nathaniel dug out the apple core. _Well, why not?_ he thought, as he also brought out a dagger to cut the leftover flesh of the apple into small bits; he did not want the little rodent scurrying away with the core, after all.

At least one of them wouldn't go hungry.

And it gave him something to do.


End file.
